Absolution
by breathing is over-rated
Summary: Okay, I was bored and so I wanted to see what would happen if I wrote something while listening to an album. The album I chose was Absolution by Muse. I am so sorry everyone. Warnings inside.


**Absolution**

Summary: Okay, I was bored and so I wanted to see what would happen if I wrote something while listening to an album. The album I chose was Absolution by Muse. I am so sorry everyone  
Warnings: Major character deaths, suicide, murder, blood, mild gore  
Rating: M  
Disclaimer: the characters belong to BBC and Arthur Conan-Doyle

* * *

This was not how it was supposed to go. Sherlock gave a sideways glance to his only friend, who had been stripped and bound to a slab. He himself was left unrestrained and in his clothes, though his brain fogged from whatever concoction of drugs they'd forced into his system. John was talking but Sherlock couldn't make out what he was saying, all the words were slurring together. A door creaked and he turned back to face their captor. The male grinned, fire in his eyes.  
"Well hello again, darling." He purred. "We should really stop meeting like this." Sherlock glared daggers at him.  
"Let us go." He ordered. Moriarty shrugged.  
"You are free to go, my dear." As he spoke, his hand made a sweeping gesture to the door he'd just entered from.  
"Let John go then." Sherlock huffed, already tired of this game. The criminal shook his head.  
"I lost my best sniper." He hummed, inspecting his fingers. "Imagine my surprise when I found that the supposed dead consulting detective was the one who killed him." John whimpered somewhere behind them. Sherlock didn't look at his friend, this was the first time John had seen him in two and a half years.

"He hasn't done anything to you." The detective said, subconsciously positioning himself so that the criminal couldn't look at John without moving to the side. Jim nodded in agreement.  
"Hmm, that is true but you have. You broke your end of the bargain and then you kill my best man. I think it's only fair that I settle the score." Jim answered. He produced a knife from the folds of his jacket, dim rays of light bounced off of the silver metal. Sherlock took a step back.  
"No." His voice was barely above a whisper. Moriarty grinned his Cheshire Cat smile and stalked forward.  
"I am going to make him _bleed._" The criminal grinned. Sherlock put himself between his rival and his friend, his legs pressing against the cold slab. Jim raised an eyebrow, pressing the blade to the taller male's coat, not enough to break through the fabric but enough to show his intent.  
"I can just as easily kill you both." He threatened.  
"Sherlock." John coughed, his words now making sense. The detective couldn't help but look at his restrained friend. "It's okay."

It was not okay. There was no way on earth that this would ever be okay. Sherlock told him to shut up and turned his attention back to the psychopath in front of him. Jim smiled, his eyes lighting up. He handed his enemy the blade and took a step back. Sherlock stayed rooted to the spot, shocked. The criminal clicked a button and the wall opposite them opened to reveal a large TV. It flickered on to produce and image of a room like the one they were in, only that room had many more people all of whom were tied together in the centre. The detective swallowed as he saw the faces. They were all people he knew, all people that he or John cared about. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mummy, Mike, Harry, to name a few. His eyes were directed to something in the corner, a hose.  
"I'm sure you've seen the news. Nasty stuff, chemical weaponry, isn't it?" Moriarty purred. John hitched a breath, he couldn't see the screen but he knew it was there.  
"How many?" He asked. Sherlock's throat tightened, he couldn't lie to his friend.  
"All of them." He answered. Jim chuckled.  
"Remember, Shirley, you can leave at any time." He hummed, thumbing a remote. "But while you're here, let's play a game." Sherlock didn't answer him; this was not the time for speaking.

"In this room is your best friend; in the room next door is everyone else in your lives. You have a choice to make, kill Johnny yourself or kill everyone else using this button. Leaving will mean forfeiting, everyone dies that way and if you think you can delete it then I'm afraid you're mistaken. I will make sure you see the murders every day for the rest of your life as penance for forfeiting." Moriarty giggled maniacally. "You have an hour to either kill John or kill the rest." The remote was left at the foot of the slab and the criminal waltzed out of the room.

Sherlock stared. He looked to John. John was the logical choice; the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one, as the case was. But he couldn't do it; he couldn't physically raise the knife. John looked at him, he was silent. Finally, the soldier closed his eyes, tilting his head back so that his neck was exposed. Sherlock stared, this was John giving his consent.  
"No." The detective growled. "No, I will find a way out. I can save everyone." The doctor's eyes fluttered open.  
"Listen to me." He ordered. "I have always given everything I can to keep your sorry ass alive. But this time it is not about you. My sister is in that room. My mother is in that room. I don't care what you think; you will kill me and save them. That is the only option, you do not have a choice in this." Sherlock blinked, the knife sliding in his grip.  
"But John…" He mumbled. "I…" John stared him down.  
"Stab me. That is an order, solider." He demanded.

The detective raised the knife; he arm froze over his head.  
"Sherlock." John warned. Sherlock looked at the metal, how it glinted. He could imagine it streaked with red. He had never seriously wanted someone dead. He wasn't a murderer, this wasn't in his genetic makeup. And yet, he had to. This was John's wish; John would never forgive him if he chose to kill the others instead. But to kill the others was so easy, it was just a button. So much easier to pretend he didn't do it. Sherlock's heart thumped wildly in his chest, threatening to burst through his ribcage.  
"John I…" He started.  
"No. You will do this, Sherlock. And then you will forget I ever existed. You are the best, Sherlock. The world needs you. It doesn't need me. So get on with it." The soldier snapped. He voice softened a bit. "Aim for between the third and forth rib, as close as possible to the sternum. You should piece my lung as well as my heart. It will be a quick death." Sherlock felt a cold chill take over him. He couldn't. He just couldn't do this. John glared at him.  
"On the count of three." He said lowly. Sherlock hadn't noticed his arms shaking, they were still above his head.  
"One."  
"John, I can't."  
"Two."  
"Stop, please."  
"_Three_." Sherlock brought the knife down hard. John raised his chest as much as his restraints allowed, meeting the blade. An inhuman howl leapt from his mouth, followed by a fountain of blood. He coughed and spluttered on the red liquid before stilling.

A hissing sound alerted Sherlock to the screen behind him. The bound crowd began screaming, struggling to escape the attack. Moriarty appeared at the door, Sherlock stared at him.  
"You said…" He whispered, like a child at the mercy of the first lie. Jim grinned darkly.  
"I did. You killed Seb." He answered. "Did you think I would let you go? You will suffer every day until you can't walk for the weight of guilt in your heart. And then you'll end it, slowly, painfully. You'll find a way to cease existing." The criminal smiled hollowly. "I win."

Then he was alone in the cell, with the lifeless corpse of John behind him and the slowly dying bodies of his friends on the screen to his left. He just stared at the door, no closed. Sherlock grabbed the knife but he couldn't do it. John died for him. They all died for him. The detective slid the knife into his jacket pocket and walked shakily out of the room.

* * *

Moriarty was nowhere to be found, Sherlock had searched the earth for him. He had dismantled every aspect of the man's criminal organisation piece by piece. His mind palace was in disrepair, the walls crumbling and the passages dust-ridden. John's hollow face haunted him every time he opened a door. Sherlock kept moving, he still had one more thing to do.  
_Sorry John. _

The criminal was eventually found, in a rundown motel. The collapse of his business had hollowed him, leaving nothing but a wisp, a shadow inhabiting the body of the one great and terrible James Moriarty. He smiled as Sherlock approached, not a word was spoken between the two as Sherlock raised John's gun. The detective's finger closed around the trigger, blood spattered on grubby, worn walls. He watched the corpse sag to the ground, silently noting the lack of difference. Jim had died a long time ago, when the game had ended. They were just shadows now, darting in and out of remnants of a life long past.

Sherlock took out the rusted knife, he had kept it in his possession all these years. His one memento of John, of the things that he had down. The detective watched his hands deftly turn the blade to face him then, with a soft sigh of relief, he thrust.


End file.
